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Rapp said, “You need to alert us if the tangos move on the warehouse before eleven. The timing on this is crucial. We can’t be pulling up to Hagenmiller’s at the same time the police are on the phone telling him that he’s been robbed. He expects to hear from the authorities tonight, and for the element of surprise, it’s best that we are the first people to contact him.”
“Understood.” There was a moment of silence, and then Kennedy asked, “What’s your gut telling you on this one?”
Rapp gripped the handset and looked around the small bedroom, not sure if Kennedy was asking for the sake of asking or if she really wanted to know. Rapp replied tentatively. “I’m not sure. I would have liked a little more time to prep, but that’s usually the case.”
Rapp didn’t sound like his confident self, and Kennedy picked up on it. “If it doesn’t look good, don’t force it.”
“I know.”
“No one back here is going to second-guess you.”
Rapp laughed quietly. “That’s never worried me before, why would it now?”
“You know what I mean. Just be careful.”
“I always am.” He was on autopilot.
“Anything else?” asked Kennedy.
“Yeah.” Rapp paused. “This is it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m done. This is the last one.”
Kennedy knew this was coming, but now wasn’t the time to talk about it. Mitch Rapp was a valuable asset, perhaps the most valuable asset on the team. It would not be easy to let him go. “We’ll talk about it when you get back.”
In a firm tone, Rapp said, “It’s not up for debate.”
“We’ll talk.”
“I’m serious.”
Kennedy sighed into the receiver. It seemed as if the walls were closing in. One more thing to worry about. “There are some things you need to know before you make that decision.”
Rapp read a little too far into the comment and said, “What in the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” Kennedy sighed. She needed some sleep, she needed to spend some time with her son, and she needed to put things in order with Stansfield before he died. The fabric was starting to fray. “I just need to bring you up to speed on what’s going on around here.”
Rapp sensed that she was a little frazzled, which for Kennedy was a rarity. “All right. We’ll talk when I get back.”
“Thank you.”
“No problem.”
“Anything else?”
Rapp tried to think if he had missed anything. “Nope.”
“All right…good luck, and keep me in the loop.”
“You got it.” Rapp placed the handset back in the cradle and ended the call. Leaning toward the window, he pulled back the curtain and looked out into the dark night. He couldn’t shake the feeling in his stomach. Something wasn’t right.
Senator Clark picked up the gavel, almost as an afterthought, and let it fall to the wooden block. Members of his committee were already out of their chairs and headed for the door. It was very unusual for senators to be working at all on a Friday, let alone into the late afternoon. But Washington was in the midst of a fall budget battle, and everybody was putting in the extra hours to try to find a way around the impending impasse. As was often the case, the Republicans wanted a tax break and the Democrats wanted to increase spending. The president, for a change, was actually trying to broker a compromise rather than exploit the situation, but neither party was willing to budge. The town was more partisan than ever. The polarization of special interests had left little room in the middle. You were either part of the solution or part of the problem. It was no longer okay to hold certain beliefs, no matter how well thought out. If you disagreed, you were the enemy. It had become a town of absolutes, and Senator Clark didn’t like it. He had got into politics because it was the next mountain to climb, not because he enjoyed stubborn, senseless partisan agendas. It was beneath him, and it wasn’t worth his time.
Hank Clark had been in the United States Senate for twenty-two years. He had thrown his hat into the ring after the Nixon resignation. Trust in politicians was at an all-time low, and the people of Arizona wanted an outsider. Someone who had made a name for himself. Hank Clark was their man. The new businessman of the West. A true self-made millionaire.
Henry Thomas Clark was born in Albuquerque, New Mexico, in 1941. His father failed at almost every business he tried, and with each failure his mother seemed to crawl a little further into the bottle. Vodka was her preference at first, poured liberally into screwdrivers and bloody marys. When times were really rough, she would drink bad whiskey and even a little Mad Dog 20/20. While Mom drank, Dad tried his hand at every nickel-and-dime job he could get. He sold ranching equipment, vacuum cleaners, used cars, aluminum siding, even windmills at one point. He failed miserably at each and every one of them, just as he had failed as a husband and a father. When Hank was eleven, his father quit for good. He went out back, behind their rented mobile home, and blew his brains out.
